


shower me with your affection (or let me wilt)

by exile_wrath



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Murder Mystery, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Shower Singing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 17:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11628510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exile_wrath/pseuds/exile_wrath
Summary: Victor and Yuuri meet in a summer of earthquakes, shower duets, musical filming, and figuring out whether they should suspect each other to be a murderer or not.





	shower me with your affection (or let me wilt)

**Author's Note:**

> I'M 23 DAYS OVERDUE ON MY POSTING BUT I'M FINALLY HERE.
> 
> anyway, this is written for the reverse big bang challenge, I partnered up with [Runa](http://gairanelixir.tumblr.com/), whose prompt caught my eye bc meet-cute via shower singing sounded cute! 1000% you all should check out her art and the art she's done for this fic!
> 
> Many thanks to [Kash](https://icanhinatashouyoutheworld.tumblr.com/)   
> and [Dommi](https://sinkingorswimming.tumblr.com/) for being my betas as well as enduring my screaming
> 
> Also thanks specifically to Dommi and Spooky for helping me with Victor's theatre background things.

Normally, witching hour is Victor’s favorite time to be awake. **  
**

Los Angeles is one of those cities that never sleeps. Even in his neighborhood, Victor hears constant traffic, hears the low hum of appliances running and feet coming and going on the sidewalk below. Witching hour is when it’s quieter, when people are wary of walking outside. It’s silent enough that he can throw his mind into the lull and convince himself that his own head is calm for once, thoughts less forceful in their car-crash collisions and worries hesitant to trouble him, slow like people watching out for muggers as they move. 

Sometimes, he misses Saint Petersburg, home of his childhood. Whenever he does miss it though, he doesn’t let himself miss it for long. 

Victor Nikiforov. Known in theatre circles as the best Puck Los Angeles Theatre has ever seen. Known to the general public as 'the sexy nice guy from the Tonys' (twice over). Currently known to the LA police force as a potential murderer — well, “person of interest” is the technical term, he supposes. He’s been involved in countless productions during his short life, has a handful of occasional film cameos, not to mention the acting awards under his name, locked away in a safe or carefully displayed in Yakov’s office. But now he’s involved in a murder case.

Normally, witching hour is Victor’s favorite time to be awake, because it’s one of the few that he can rest. 

But it’s a little hard to rest while you’re being detained by police. At least they had the mercy to not handcuff him. 

Georgi weeps next to Victor, taking advantage of his own cuff-less state to soak his sleeve with his tears, repeating “Anya, Anya,” like a mantra that could bring his fiancee back to life. Victor is tired and not as much of a dick as people like to assume celebrities are, so he doesn’t have the heart to tell Georgi that no matter how much he cries, Anya is still dead. Left floating in the brilliant blue of the rooftop swimming pool of their apartment complex. 

The chairs are uncomfortable and the police station buzzing with too much energy for Victor to even consider closing his eyes to try to rest a bit. Not to mention Georgi’s constant and extremely loud crying rendering it practically impossible. As many talents as Victor may have, falling asleep in less than ideal conditions is not one of them.

Victor leans back, ignoring the way the hard plastic digs into his spine. He’ll be damned if he lets a _chair_ defeat his perfect posture. But just as he does so, a policeman approaches, square jaw set in a way that screams displeasure. “We’re sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Nikiforov, Mr. Popovich.” He says the apology like he’s reading out of a manual. “As it stands, this case is... quite big. We have your testimonies already, and will examine them, but the corpse-” ‘ _corpse_ ’  triggers a fresh wave of tears from Georgi, “is in a state that will take awhile to examine for time of death.” 

Another policeman joins them. “We’ll be letting you go for now,” he says.  His long hair contrasts the other’s undercut. “Mr. Popovich, as the deceased’s fiance, we’ll keep in touch. Mr. Nikiforov, if you note any suspicious activity in your apartment building, please let us know.” 

“Will do,” Victor says. He blinks for a moment. “Wait, you’re letting us go?”

“There’s not enough evidence to detain you two longer than necessary,” the long-haired officer says. “I mean, we _can_ detain you, but it would cause one hell of a scandal. I think Otabek here would agree with me that the less tabloids and paparazzi crawling around, the better.” 

Otabek grunts in affirmation. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he says, succeeding in not sounding like a wooden board this time. “We’ll escort you back.” 

“Can I sit in the front this time?” Victor asks, praying to have the opportunity to get some kind of sleep at some point. 

The policemen exchange pitying glances. “Sure.” 

By the time Victor gets back to his apartment, he’s had five minutes of shallow sleep and a stilted yet revealing conversation with the ponytailed officer, who’d eventually introduced himself as Cao Bin. He doesn’t really care though. All he wants to do is lie down and sleep until noon. Witching hour is almost over, the numbers 4:28 glowing mockingly from one of his many clocks. 

Everything is a bit of a haze after that. Somehow, Victor showers away his fatigue, somehow he doesn’t register the rumble in the building as he steps out. Somehow, he flops down on his bed and closes his eyes to sleep. Sleep, not rest, because rest would mean that his mind is quiet and the tension in his body gone. It’s a fitful sleep, despite Makkachin padding to the bed at some point and curling up next to him. It’s the best he can get, these days. 

Victor Nikiforov wakes up to singing and an earthquake. Neither are related, but-

* * *

Yuuri Katsuki had gone to sleep with singing haunting his ears and water-swollen faces haunting his dreams. He wakes up with lyrics swimming through his head, a tune making his body ache for a dance studio to free the music in. 

His morning routine consists of brushing his teeth, showering, and eating breakfast. It’s a normal routine, bland and unexciting, but enough to kick him into a vaguely functional state until he gets tea down his throat and he converts from room 227’s resident zombie to Yuuri Katsuki, dance instructor at a studio in West Hollywood.

This morning there is a change in his routine. It’s slight, and honestly only caused by the song that’s persisted in his head all night. He doesn’t remember all of it, but he knows the tune the stranger in the elevator had been humming, and the lyrics he’d been crooning under his breath. 

“Show me your heart- I see the brighter sky. I'll give you my heart. Let me be the one···” It’s a dramatic tune, one that he’d associate as something belted on Broadway with live musical backing rather than an apartment building elevator. It echoes nicely enough in his shower though, and Yuuri can pretend that instead of lathering his hair with shampoo, he’s presenting this song for an audience.

He’s... not much a singer. His body is his instrument of choice, but in the privacy of his own apartment there’s no one to judge any mistakes. “I'll always be, be there for you... I promised to save you, I'll save you now.”

That’s it. That’s all he knows of the stranger’s song. Yuuri feels irritation surge, knowing that the little he _does_ know will be on repeat all day, jitterbugging irritatingly through his head. He reaches for his conditioner, only to startle. “Oh baby I'm coming, you're not alone! I promised to save you, I'll save you now!” He drops the bottle and almost slips on the tile as singing filters through from the... showerhead?

Whoever is on the other side pauses, as if they’re waiting for him to pick up the song again. But Yuuri does not do this kind of _thing_. Shower singing is one thing, but shower duets with someone completely unknown (even if they sing very well?) is just. Nope. He scrambles through rinsing, scrambles out of the shower, and scrambles out of the restroom entirely. He clutches his chest in alarm once he’s in his kitchen. _That_ had never happened before. 

Granted, Yuuri’s only lived in this apartment for two months. He has little clue what his neighbors are like, much less whether the acoustics of the shower would actually be enough for them to hear him. Hopefully, his neighbor won’t be waiting outside to meet him or something. That would be awkward. “Hi, I’m your neighbor and I heard you singing through the shower, you sound like a dying cat and woke me up?”

Maybe they’re not that mean. Maybe Yuuri will have to deal with, “Hi! I heard you singing and I’ve never met you before, my name is-” and he’ll be yanked into having to introduce himself, possibly yanked into meeting up with them again, and his normal morning routine thus unfairly wrenched from his hands. He’s not ready to deal with the Southern California friendliness that abounds in media, so hopefully they’re... not there at all. 

His heart is in his throat as he leaves his apartment, only barely returning to his chest upon no overly friendly neighbor waiting at his door. Either way, he rushes out the building. Yuuri hesitates in front of the elevator, and checks the time. He’s a few minutes earlier than usual, because of his shower being cut short, so he veers off to take the stairs. 

The run down seven flights of stairs is... good. It helps him dismiss the man he met and the entire clusterfuck of last night. By the time he reaches the first floor, the whole affair is out of his head, music and choreography he’d been commissioned for flowing through instead. _This is good,_ he convinces himself. 

The fringes of his memory though will always lurk with a song, a dead woman, and a singing man in an elevator.

* * *

“Vitya, what in God’s name is wrong with you today?” Yakov snaps. 

Victor jerks in his seat, looking up to Yakov’s livid glare. “Nothing, Yakov,” he says.

“You’ve been ignoring me for the past ten minutes!” Yakov glowers, picking up the papers on his desk and shuffling through them. “Please tell me you at least heard _something_.” 

He can only offer a wan smile. “A movie offer, really?” 

“It’s a musical; you’d know that if you had been actually paying attention,” Yakov corrects. “The director or someone high-up in the production team is a fan of yours; they specifically requested you for the main lead, nevermind the fact that the only roles you’ve had in movies are small ones. But it’s an enormous offer, and a chance to break into the film industry.” 

It _is_ a good offer. Amazing, in fact. But Victor is unable to summon any excitement, any energy for this. He leans to the side of his chair, and puts on his best contemplative gaze as he stares past Yakov and out the window. 

Yakov’s office is a little messy, various objects casting sharp shadows from the sun that like shining dramatically behind Yakov. Victor knows that Yakov prefers it this way, and has preferred it this way for almost the past thirty years. The furniture looks like it would fit right in at an antique sale, and the brown leather of the chairs they’re sitting in are comfortably cracked with age. The main desk is the only thing shining new, polished black wood with a glass top and a desktop computer bought two years ago. Harder to steal, Yakov says whenever someone tries to convince him to buy a laptop instead. 

“Have you seen the news today?” Victor doesn’t say anything about the offer. 

Yakov gives him a dirty glare, but indulges this sudden subject change. “No,” he says. “Did something happen? Are the tabloids trying to smear you?” 

Ah. “Have you seen Georgi today?” 

This time, Yakov frowns. “No. He called in sick. He sounded like it.” 

Victor braces his hands on his chair and sits up straight, summoning all the spine he has for this. “Last night, we were called to the police station.” Yakov immediately sits upright. “Anya died last night, Yakov. They called us in because her body was found on the roof of our apartment building, and the police know that me and Georgi knew her.”

“Do they suspect you?” 

“No, they just wanted to see if we knew anything. If they do suspect us, they did a good job of hiding it.” Victor swallows. “I saw her body. We both did. It... wasn’t pretty.” 

Yakov lets out a heavy breath, and slumps once more. It’s moments like this where he looks too old to be in LA, running an acting agency. Victor thinks that someone Yakov’s age should be comfortably retired and living off their pension by now, but considering the broken economy, it’s not a surprise that he’s still working. 

Part of Victor knows though, that it’s some strange sense of familial duty — several actors have broken into the scene under Yakov’s care, and other than Victor, Milla and Georgi are the ones who have been here since the beginning of their careers, never once switching agents. 

They were all there for the engagement announcement. They’ll all be there for Anya’s funeral. 

“Well, since it’s clear that you’re distracted,  take the rest of the day off,” Yakov says, reaching for the drawer that Victor knows contains vodka. He doesn’t blame him. He pushes some papers towards Victor, though. “These are some productions that are interested in casting you, as well as the script for the movie that wants you. Give it a look over, sometime.”  

“Thank you, Yakov.” Victor doesn’t take the opening for granted, and leaves immediately. 

As the door closes, he hears a heavy sigh, and the distinct sound of a bottle being opened. 

He can only imagine how Georgi must be feeling.

* * *

Walking with Makkachin never fails to get his mind off of things. 

Victor waits patiently as she does her business, other people with their own dogs nodding politely as they walk by. She noses at a few, but is happy to bounce alongside him, spritely despite her age. Their usual route when Victor is busy is just around a few blocks, but on days when he’s free like this, he takes her to a park instead, falling out of his role of “actor with no current contracts” to become “just another person walking a dog”. He likes it. If people approach, it’s usually to coo over Makkachin, not ask for a photo. 

Not that he doesn’t mind the photos, but he’s learned, like so many other actors, to value anonymity. 

Victor sinks into his mind, letting Makkachin tug him along on her journey. _I don’t know who my neighbor is at all,_ he muses. He could possibly ask the management, or maybe check the mailbox next to his, but both options are a little sketchy. 

He knows he’s being irrational in suspecting his neighbor of killing Anya, but anything to do with murder, Victor supposes, never is. 

Considering the age of their apartment complex, it’s not uncommon for some things to go whack. The landlord is always very judicious in repairing things though, but lately they’ve been having several small earthquakes in the area (common for an LA summer) and a few nights ago, some wiring for the security cameras had been damaged. There’s no visual footage to rely on in order to get a clue of the murderer’s identity, unfortunately. 

_But_ , last night, on the way home, Officer Cao Bin had asked him if he’d heard any suspicious singing earlier in the day. 

Admittedly, “suspicious singing” isn’t really an idea Victor can consider without laughing, because what _is_ suspicious singing? A character singing a ditty about dissecting live people whilst plotting madly in their evil lair? But in all seriousness, Victor knows the implication — that they were able to get some audio tracks from the elevator security camera (the only one that has audio, for obvious reasons), and that the main clue they have so far is that the culprit was singing.

It’s not much of a clue, he knows, but —

Victor is yanked abruptly out of his head as Makkachin suddenly loops the leash around his legs, her intent obvious as she stares in the direction they had came. “Time to go home?” 

She barks happily in agreement. 

He picks up the pace, hurrying back to his car. It’s just after noon, according to his phone. He should probably eat. 

A last thought rises as he pulls out of the parking spot. _I don’t know you, singing neighbor,_ he thinks, _I don’t know if you’re a good person or not._

_But for all our sakes, I hope you weren’t the one that killed Anya._

Victor himself hadn’t been attached to her that much. She’d been a somewhat-known movie actress, never really featured in any major lead character roles, but her work in supporting roles had earned her some praise. Georgi had been over the moon when they had started dating three years ago, and over the stars when they announced their engagement six months ago — and now he’s crushed with her passing. 

If he has a reason to suspect somebody, Victor would report them to the police. Georgi, however, is a man of passion. 

He might not be so kind.

* * *

Yuuri steps back into his studio room and drops his bag to the side, flicking on the lights in the same movement. 

His work goes like this: dance, choreograph, eat lunch, and dance, all while being mindful of his old injury. He teaches all ages, from children being pressed by their parents to learn ballet to teenagers looking to form a hip-hop group together to people sheepishly wanting to explore the pole. Yuuri’s favorites are the children, as some of them remind him of himself so much, joy lighting up their features and revelling in newly-attained limberness.

(He has a soft spot for the couples that Mr. Ahnas across the hall teaches though, the ones so in love with each other that they want to dance ballroom, or tango, or flamenco to burn their love into a sight everyone can witness.)

It’s easy to drop into stretches, an old routine that’s long been ingrained in his bones. He has a good half hour before he has to teach his afternoon beginner ballet class, and it’s plenty of time to relax in the quiet of the studio. 

And then, it’s not so quiet.

Violin starts up from Yuuri’s phone, his custom ringtone for Celestino muffled in his bag. Yuuri’s first instinct is to ignore it and dismiss the call, but it’s been almost a month and a half since he hadn’t ignored one of his old mentor’s calls. If Phichit were here, he’d probably answer for Yuuri to kick him into gear, and that paired with guilt is what gets Yuuri to his feet and drag his thumb to answer.

“Yuuri!” Celestino somehow always sounds relieved whenever Yuuri answers the phone these days. “How are you settling in? I hope that everything’s been running smoothly, my friend has told me that the classes you teach are very well-received!”

As always, Yuuri feels somewhat blown over by the force of Celestino’s enthusiasm. “Things are... okay,” he says. “My apartment is nice, everyone at the studio is friendly, I think, and Phichit and I have been hanging out a lot more.” 

“Still attached at the hip?” Celestino inquires. 

Yuuri runs his hand through his hair. “No, not really. He’s busy with his work, and I’m busy with mine. We do make sure to eat together, though.” 

“Ah,” Celestino says. “Well, enough of the chitchat then, I don’t want to disturb anything, unless you have time to talk right now?” 

He glances at the screen. “I have ten minutes before I have to teach ballet.” Yuuri wishes that he didn’t have to cut their call short, considering how long it he had been avoiding Celestino’s calls. “Sorry, Ciao Ciao.”

“No worries!” Celestino dismisses it, and Yuuri can easily envision him flapping his hand in the air. “It’s good to know that you’re busy and that my friend wasn’t just trying to comfort me. Anyway, I have a job offer for you.” 

“I- what?” Yuuri feels the abrupt need to sit down, so he crosses his legs on the floor. 

Celestino simply continues speaking. “A friend of a friend is involved in a movie production, and it is to be a musical! She wanted to know if I knew any talented choreographers that might be willing to enter a contract with them. I mentioned your credentials and she expressed interest in getting you, specifically.” 

“Me?”

“Some of your performances from Juilliard and the ABT are online, Yuuri. It was easy for her to look up the links. Anyway, if you’d like to talk more about the details, I will give you her contact.” 

Yuuri hesitates. It’s second nature to pause and think whether this is really an opportunity he should take, if he’s really worthy for it. Premier danseur for the American Ballet Troupe was one thing he hadn’t had the option to hesitate on, because the company leader had wanted _him_ specifically. 

This opportunity... would be a lot of money. And while Yuuri isn’t poor by any means, he does budget tightly and restrain on buying things on a whim. LA is an expensive city to live in. 

... Maybe, he’d be able to use the money to visit Hasetsu? 

“If you’re worried about your injury,” Celestino’s voice interrupts his train of thought, “I think you’ll be fine. They need someone to make routines and guide the actors, not to dance in front of the camera.” 

Some days, Yuuri’s knee throbs from when he’d torn his ACL less than a year ago. Teaching classes doesn’t aggravate it, and if this job won’t either, then what’s there to refuse? 

“Send me the information, Ciao Ciao,” Yuuri says with more confidence than he feels, getting to his feet as some early children filter into the room. “I’ll look into it later; my class is starting soon.” 

“That’s the spirit! I’ll email it to you to look over then. Ciao, Yuuri!” 

Celestino hangs up before Yuuri can say goodbye, and he feels a rush of thanks. His old mentor is busy himself, he knows. It’s always nice to remember that he has people around him that love him enough to take time out of their day to extend opportunities to him, to talk to him. 

It was hard to settle into his new life after his injury and rehab and leaving the troupe. Yuuri had torn his muscle so badly that his body would longer be able to execute the more straining efforts of ballet. So while he could no longer be a premier danseur, he could still dance, no matter to what limited extent. Everyone had helped him find a new place to settle down and a new job. Different happiness, outside the troupe.

He shakes his head, shaking off that train of thought. No time to reminisce now — twenty children are waiting to learn ballet and his love of ballet.

* * *

“So you finally answered Ciao Ciao, huh.” Phichit sets down his menu and looks at the waiter. “Can I get the black garlic special ramen with extra noodles and a side of karaage?” 

The person nods. Yuuri skims his own menu and nudges it over to them. “I’ll have the tonkotsu ramen, that’s all.” They nod again and take the menus as they go to input the order. Yuuri turns back to Phichit. “How did you know?” 

“Well, Ciao Ciao didn’t text me an hour ago asking me how you’re doing. He usually messages once a week if you’re doing okay since you haven’t been in contact with anyone from the troupe lately.” 

Yuuri can’t help his wince. “Oh.”

Phichit laughs a little. “Don’t worry, Yuuri. It’s good that you answered him yourself though finally.” The server came by to slide a plate of karaage between them. “Oh man, I love how tender the chicken is here.” 

Yuuri thinks for a moment before stealing a piece. Even though he doesn’t have to be as conscientious about his diet as when he was in the troupe, he still considers himself a professional danseur. Ordering a bowl of ramen is already pushing it, but considering his nightly run, it’ll probably be okay to just have one piece of karaage. “I’m glad I talked to him too,” Yuuri says.

“Any news from the troupe?”

“No. He just wanted to check up on me and tell me about a job offer. He sounded like he was in a bit of a rush.” Their ramen finally came, Phichit’s soup terrifyingly black and undoubtedly spicy. It looked like something that hipster food bloggers would take a video of for a video challenge and either end up eating straight-faced or calling for more water. 

Phichit perks up, snapping his chopsticks apart. “Job offer? What-” 

A loud gasp echoes across the restaurant, and they both look up to see several people staring at the TV on the wall behind Yuuri. Yuuri twists in his seat to look at the screen, eyes widening and a hand clapping over his mouth in horrified recognition. 

He knew that face. 

Concentrating on the words of the newscaster, a shiver went up his spine at the memory of last night. “This morning, actress Anya Marchenkova was discovered dead in the pool of an apartment complex in North Hollywood. The police have little to say on her death other than that they are investigating all possible leads. Her fiance, Georgi Popovich, has not been seen since last night, his agency issuing a statement that he is currently in mourning-”

“Yuuri!” Yuuri jolts away from the screen at Phichit’s hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Yuuri lies immediately. It’s a reflexive sort of answer, one that Phichit can see through with the experience of being Yuuri’s roommate for years. Phichit narrows his eyes. “... I don’t want to talk about it in public.” 

Phichit nods, just the tiniest movement, and smoothly changes the subject, taking a bite of his ramen and giving Yuuri’s own bowl a pointed look. Yuuri eats his tonkotsu, enjoying it only half as much as usual, desperately trying to distract himself in conversation with Phichit and the flavor of the food. 

If he eats an extra piece of karaage out of stress, Phichit doesn’t say a thing.

On the drive back to their apartment complex, they’re both silent, Yuuri trying to organize his thoughts and Phichit respecting his need for quiet. It’s a relief, because how is Yuuri supposed to tell Phichit that he might have run into the murderer of that actress last night? And that he saw her body?

(And ran, like a coward, terrified of his revelation.)

Yuuri surfaces from his head once they’re in Phichit’s bedroom and there are friendly little hamsters sitting comfortingly in Yuuri’s hands. “Okay, spill. If you don’t know where to begin, begin at the beginning,” Phichit says. It’s a familiar line, rehearsed since the days of their college years and Yuuri was even more of an anxious person.

“That actress we saw on TV. I’m the one that called the police last night,” Yuuri blurts. “I didn’t say who I was though, because I- I think I ran into the murderer. And I was afraid that he would find me — he already knows what floor I live on, and-” 

“Wait, slow down, _what_!?” Phichit cries in alarm. He sits next to Yuuri on his bed. “What happened?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Late last night, I went out for a run. Around midnight, maybe? And there was this guy in the elevator going down too. I couldn’t see his face. He was singing, and I remember he had a plastic bag.” 

Phichit settles his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Okay.”

“And then when I went back, I figured to go for a quick swim, float in the pool a little to warm down my muscles. But when I got up there-” he remembers now, with unwanted clarity, “There was a woman floating in pool. Her skin was all swelled up and it looked like she had been in there for _hours_. And she wasn’t wearing swimming clothes. So I called the police.” 

“Holy shit,” Phichit mutters. “Your’e saying that Anya Marchenkova died on the roof of _our_ apartment complex?” 

Yuuri nods, his eyes open again. “I bet if we tried to go up to the pool, it’ll be blocked. I think  that there’s no police presence in the lobby because they don’t want any paparazzi to interfere with the investigation, and they don’t want to advertise exactly which building she was found in.”

“Damn, I see.” A pause. “Wait, the news mentioned that they got the call from an anonymous tip. That was you then?” 

“They did?” Yuuri didn’t notice anything like that. 

“Yeah. The police might be looking for you, Yuuri. Have you considered coming forward?” 

Fear, like a vice, clamps around Yuuri’s throat. “No,” he whispers. “I think- I think that the murderer lives in our apartment complex. And he knows what floor I live on, if I come forward. Phichit, he might kill me.” 

“Oh my god, Yuuri.” Phichit reaches around him and hugs him. “I...” 

Yuuri hadn’t even noticed that he had been shaking, but he feels it now, a panic attack hanging on the fringe of his vision. Phichit’s presence helps though, and admitting what had happened last night. He takes several long breaths, matching his breathing with Phichit’s, until he feels like he can  breathe again. “Who exactly was that actress? I don’t really pay attention to celebrities.”

Phichit releases him to grab his phone, but makes sure to sit side-by side with Yuuri. He pulls up google and types the name into the address. “Anya Marchenkova, from what I know, is kind of a B-list actress. She’s been the lead in some smaller films, some supporting roles in big films like ‘Hunger Fury’ and ‘The Road We Walked’. Kind of well-known, but she’s not really a Big Name. The tabloids were all over her a few months, though. She’s engaged to some theatre star, Georgi Popovich — or well, _was_ engaged.”

“I see.” Yuuri doesn’t know any of the films Phichit mentioned, and looking at the picture smiling on Anya’s Wikipedia page makes him feel nothing but pity. 

They sit in silence a little, Phichit stewing and Yuuri playing with the hamsters to try to take his mind off things. A thousand questions are on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t want to ask any of them. _Why do you think she was murdered? Do you think the killer lives in our apartment complex? He might be close?? Oh god, do you think he’ll come after m-_

Phichit sits up. “Yuuri, I think that you should tell the police,” he says solemnly. “I know you’re scared that the killer might go after you if you say anything, but the sooner you tell them everything you know, the sooner they might catch the guy! And you’ll be safe if he’s behind bars. Or maybe, if the police know that you’re scared of being killed, they could put you in a safe house or something.”

“... You’re right,” Yuuri mumbles. “I’m just...”

“You’re terrified, and I would be too if I was you.” Phichit leans against Yuuri. “But... if the killer is close to you — to us — I think it would be best to reach out to the police again, before the worst case scenario happens.”

He doesn’t even want to entertain the _idea_ of the worst case scenario. “Let me think about it,” Yuuri says, standing up to gently put the hamsters back in their cage. “Thanks for hearing me out, Phichit.” 

Phichit’s eyes are serious as he shows Yuuri to the door. “Stay safe, Yuuri. And if you feel _anything_ weird, call the police. Or at least call me, okay?” 

“I will,” Yuuri promises. 

He can only hope it’s one that he won’t be forced to keep.

* * *

_“Please leave a message after the beep.”_

“Hello Gosha, it’s me. I hope you’re doing okay, and remembered to eat at least. Yakov is worried about you; I told him about what happened to Anya.” Victor idly pets Makkachin, trying to think of what to say, but what do you say to a man whose fiancee was killed last night? “Please call back, or at least talk to someone about it. Bottling things up isn’t healthy.” He winces at that. “Anyway, take care. We’re here for you.” 

Victor hangs up before he can say anything callous by accident; he’s never been good with comforting people unless he had a script. Maybe he should have written a script before calling. 

It’s witching hour again. At least he’s not in a police station this time. Victor sighs and leans on the pillows propped against the headboard of his bed, mostly naked under his blankets with only Makkachin’s sleeping form curled on top of the sheets next to him, tail wagging at something happy in her dreams. Anyone in theatre circles that knows about him and his unfounded playboy reputation would probably be in utter disbelief if they knew the truth about Victor’s bed-partner. 

The moon is cold and emotionless as it looks down upon the apartment complex, light spilling through a window. He’s tempted to stand up and close the blinds, but is too comfortable to bother.

Victor sinks down, laying properly in his bed. _I hope the murderer is found soon,_ he muses.

For Georgi’s sake, at least. He and Anya had been... not really perfect for each other, but they managed to fit together anyway. Victor remembers not really being fond of Anya at first, as she had thought theatre lesser to film out of some strange sense of Hollywood elitism. But he’d gotten along with her, for Georgi’s sake, and they’d been on relatively okay speaking terms for the most part. 

Georgi had been the initiator in their relationship most of the time, taking Anya places and paying for their dates and being the one to propose six months ago. Maybe he’d rushed into things with that engagement, but Anya had seemed happy about it, or at least with the glamourous diamond-encrusted ring Georgi had bought for her. 

They’d been happy, and in love. 

But what a shame it is, that Georgi had managed to find his life and love outside of his career, only to lose her in such a brutal way. 

On nights that he’s more pessimistic, Victor wonders if love really is worth it. People fall out of love all the time; lose the people they love in many different ways. But he knows, in his heart, from so many theatre scripts and the words of people around him, that it is worth it. 

“Being in love is worth the pain, no matter the result.” Yakov’s words years ago, as he’d clenched divorce papers from Lilia. 

He sleeps with a wish to fall in love in the forefront of his mind, and wakes up to a notice slid under his front door. 

It’s a letter from the landlord saying that because of the frequent minor earthquakes that come around to LA during the summer, a bit of their building infrastructure has been damaged. Any plumbing issues are to be reported as soon as possible. Victor tosses the letter in the bin, grateful that the landlord is a decent person.

He sets out food for Makkachin (home-cooked that he’d made yesterday evening, only the best for his girl) and head to the shower. It’s only when the spray of water hits him and he reaches for his shampoo that he remembers yesterday in full clarity. _The singing._

It had never happened before. Maybe it was because of some weird plumbing shift? Victor doesn’t know. 

But he does know what he’s going to sing.

* * *

Next door, Yuuri almost chokes on his toothpaste as “I’M BEAUTIFUL IN MY WAY, ‘CAUSE GOD MAKES NO MISTAKES, I’M ON THE RIGHT. TRACK. BABY I WAS BORN THIS WAAAY,” echoes through the showerhead.

**Author's Note:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter:
> 
> A Tales of Sleeping Prince - Georgi FS skate  
> Born this Way - Lady Gaga  
> Chapter title is from Little Boots "Earthquake"
> 
> Some small things: 
> 
> Earthquakes are treated rly casually because they're not really a big deal when you live in southern california. The usual reaction is "oh hey another earthquake" unless it's a giant one. 
> 
> Victor is 28, Yuuri is 24. Their apartment complex is in North Hollywood, Yuuri's studio is in West Hollywood. 
> 
> Otabek and Cao Bin are buddy cops in this.
> 
> Yoshinoya Ramen is really good, if you're in LA ever you should try iiiit. karaage is JP friend chicken.


End file.
